but the eyes are blind (one must look with the heart)
by gilbertsparkleparty
Summary: AU in which Borders still exists and France is an Antonioni character. ((FrUK's version of events, with various other background pairings. Part of an eventual 'verse.))
1. one

**Obligatory statement that lets the world know that I (unfortunately) don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

If Francis were ever to write an autobiography, he'd call it _Mon Amour_.

And that isn't just the perpetual romantic in him speaking, amorous thoughts of love for love's sake spilling over into melodrama and flair and _je vois la vie en rose_; no, it's more than that. Simply put, Francis is in love with life itself, and that's why this title, cliché and utterly French as he is, fits perfectly.

It's in the littlest things that he finds the most beauty, like in the twinkling of distant city lights in the evening, or in the sound of a crackling fire over a quiet snowfall, or in the smell of an old book and old words and old stories preserved over centuries. This morning, beauty is in Arthur's bulky sweater and its too-long sleeves enveloping thin wrists and thinner fingers.

He'd dubbed it the Watson Sweater, much to Arthur's chagrin (and quiet amusement, but Francis isn't supposed to know about that, about the fact that Arthur can appreciate and even find warmth in his small jokes and insistencies) because it was the same sweater John Watson wore in _Sherlock_.

(And if Arthur is indeed a closet Watson fanboy, then he has nothing to hide, because Francis is a closet Arthur fanboy and knows what it's like to worship someone so entirely).

"Quit your staring, frog," Arthur says into the silence, not looking up from the onion he's attempting to dice neatly on a wooden cutting board. A pile of mutilated vegetables already lies off to one side of the board—no doubt awaiting their fate as burnt omelette ingredients—and Francis chuckles.

"And who says I was staring? Have you grown eyes in the back of your head, _mon cher_?"

"I can see you in the reflection of my knife."

And if that right there isn't an accurate summary of their relationship, Francis doesn't know what is.

* * *

Sometimes, Francis will close the studio early and pick up fresh bread and produce on the way home for lunch. Arthur prefers late afternoon shifts at Borders, so their shared weekday meal comes at the height of the day. Francis likes this because they can have picnics when it's warm outside, and Arthur can pretend to scoff when Francis wraps an arm around his shoulders and throws bits of bread to the birds. Arthur likes the fact that he can sleep in, and, while he'll never admit it, that he only has to fend for himself regarding two meals a day rather than for all three—though he insists on making weekend breakfasts, because a Proper English Breakfast is the only acceptable way for anyone to start the day, no matter how blackened the toast happens to be.

(Francis and sunshine are a pretty nice combination, too, he supposes).

On days like this, however, Francis stays late and loses himself in the shadows of the darkroom, develops photo after photo after photo until he knows Arthur's shift has started and the apartment will be empty. Francis is one to throw himself into his work when he gets excited about a project, and he allows himself no distractions (sadly, Arthur's ass very much falls under this category) when his photography comes out especially well.

This new photoset has turned out just as he'd hoped. The light plays on the graceful curves and slopes of the hills in the introductory photographs, shadows falling over some crests and highlighting others in an almost surrealist landscape, and _ah_—there's that feeling of falling in love again. As the series progresses, the hills become dotted with small groups of picnickers, bird-watchers, laughing children, a fisherman, two lovers, a rabbit, a setting sun, a blank canvas. Francis hums contentedly as he works, _Joe le Taxi_ today, and only notices at quarter of five that the markets are closing and the last of the bread at home probably exists as burnt toast crumbs in the sink by now.

He hangs up one final photograph to complete the series and closes up the studio for the evening. With any luck, Arthur might not have found the crepe ingredients in the refrigerator.

* * *

Borders is superior to all other bookstores, and no one can convince him otherwise. It's the music selection that wins Arthur over. He can spend his afternoons surrounded by books and music and get paid to do so, and his 30% employee discount is never taken for granted. Basically, Arthur working at Borders means Arthur constantly coming home with bags of books and music means Arthur converting the second bedroom in their apartment into a library, and finally retail isn't synonymous with hell.

As he starts organizing some new arrivals in the music section, he notices a tall, deeply tanned man wearing white shutter-shades and looking very lost in the Home and Garden section.

"Need some help?"

The man turns and grins, flashes an almost predatory smirk, and that coupled with his hidden eyes is disconcerting enough to be getting along with. "I just need to find a book for someone," he says in a loud voice, sauntering toward Arthur. "I'd say not to ask me what it's about, cause that's really none of your business, man, but I don't know where the hell to look so you're gonna forget that I'm looking for a book about cats and help me out, all right?" The easy grin never leaves his face, and Arthur can't quite tell if he's supposed to feel threatened or not because the man's cockiness and assumed toughness is beginning to remind him a bit of Gilbert, who's all bark and no bite (unless, of course, your name is Roderich Edelstein). But the man's now leaning against a precarious stack of boxes, and as Arthur's not in the mood to clean up hundreds of CDs, he nods and motions for the man to follow him to the Animal section at the other side of the store.

"Cats, hmm?" he asks, and he has to stifle a chuckle as the man stiffens and checks to make sure no one else is within earshot before replying.

"A book about cats will get me laid tonight; that's all you need to know."

Arthur quirks an eyebrow, not entirely sure if this man is being serious or not, and gestures to the row on their right. "Sounds like you know how to pick them."

"Shut it, Eyebrows."

"It's Arthur, actually, but it's good to know you can actually see behind those glasses."

The man appraises him for a minute, mouth curling back into a smirk, and holds out a large hand, which Arthur accepts. "Sadiq."

"Best of luck with the cats, Sadiq."

A short bark of laughter, and he disappears down the row. "Nice sentiment, but a guy like me doesn't need luck…Eyebrows."

* * *

Arthur is too British for his own good, severely British even—all Earl Grey and fish&chips and perfect Received Pronunciation when he isn't trying (slurring more toward Cockney when he's drunk)—and as such, watching football matches with him is something to be at once feared and relished. He falls somewhere between a Category B and Category C fan, and is "damn proud of this classification, so don't expect me to tone it down just because _you're_ here, wanker." And, true to his word, with the kickoff comes an entirely new Arthur Kirkland sitting beside Francis, covered in facepaint and roaring and cursing and cheering his way through the North London derby, while in the apartment above, Alfred's all-time favorite movie this week grows noticeably louder in a fruitless attempt to drown out the cacophony.

Francis's favorite part comes afterward, when Arthur's vibrating with either rage or fervor or pure adrenaline, because all that extra energy becomes angry or celebratory (but always loud) sex, and upstairs, Alfred's thumb rides the remote's volume button up&up&up until it isn't just the bed shaking, but the entire building. In a perfect world, Francis would make sure there's a football match every night of the week, 52 weeks a year.

But when his alarm goes off the following morning, Arthur's back to his usual self, grumbling about the early hour and pulling the blankets tighter around him with the absence of Francis's warm arms, and Francis is left checking the football schedule on the fridge for the next big match.

This morning, he nearly slips on a piece of paper under the door on the way to the kitchen.

_Hey everyone!_

_We have some new people moving in this Saturday and I think we all need to get together and meet&greet them and hang out because you guys are clique-y like schoolgirls and we can't have that SO. Party this weekend, Penthouse Suite aka Land of AWESOME. Come or we'll up your rent~!_

_NORDICS OUT,_

_Mathias & Co._

Something in the back of his mind registers that the only empty apartment in the building is the one next door to his and Arthur's. Grabbing a croissant on his way out the door, Francis sticks the notice and a bright pink Post-It note for Arthur _(You're very sexy at parties, so no arguments)_ on the refrigerator and hopes for these new people's sake that they have a television with a sound system to rival Alfred and Toris's.


	2. two

He's lost all sense of motivation now, which isn't entirely surprising considering it's the morning after a match (because a thoroughly-fucked Francis translates to an at-peace-with-the-world Francis translates to _let's stop and actually smell the roses instead of just spouting clichés about life_). But the studio is waiting and the developing photographs had looked great yesterday, so this morning he picks rather than smells a rose from the bushes out front and sets out on his way.

His phone vibrates as he walks, and he pulls it out to find a new message from Gilbert.

_ you're going to the party tomorrow yes or yes_

Instead of texting back, Francis hits the "Call" button—he's never much liked texting; it feels too impersonal—and is surprised when it takes four rings for Gilbert to pick up.

"I'm just gonna go ahead and assume that your morning wouldn't be complete without hearing my voice, and not that you still haven't learned to text on your new phone."

"And why should I waste my time typing when I could be speaking and having a real conversation with someone?" It's the same discussion they always have: Francis likes voices, inflections, laughs, sighs, sarcasm, sincerity. It's not his fault that none of that translates over text.

"Because sometimes the person on the other end of the line is trying not to wake his fucking boyfriend up at 7:30."

Francis pauses as he waits for the walk signal and shakes his head at Roderich's ridiculous sleep patterns. How anyone can sleep past 11 each morning and still call it early is beyond his understanding. "It is a beautiful day and everyone should be outside right now, so I'm not sure how sorry I actually am, _mon ami_."

Gilbert snorts. "Whatever, I'm in the other room now anyway. So. Back to important topics…party on Saturday?"

"Of course, when was the last time I passed up a party?"

He's met by silence as Gilbert deliberates, no doubt trying to remember nights that he will never remember and Francis-less parties that never existed. "Touché."

The light turns red and Francis crosses to the other side of the street, smiling at Gilbert's accidental French. "Another point for me," he lilts, and Gilbert curses. This game is a favorite of theirs: whose native language falls into casual conversation more often, whose words some poor, unsuspecting old lady will happen to use while sitting in a train station, only to be followed with a triumphant cry of, "Point for me! Suck it, losers!" and an exasperated comment about how _hamburger _really shouldn't even count (because 1) it's a food, and 2) spending any amount of time around Alfred would then be considered cheating).

Gilbert hangs up on him after that, and Francis walks the rest of the way in quiet contentment. His mind drifts back to Mathias's notice, and he wonders what these new people will be like, if they'll be just as loud and crazy as the rest of the building's tenants or if they'll be packing their bags within the week and seeking counseling. And now for the second time in ten minutes he's thinking of poor old ladies. Maybe that should be his next photo subject: crazy cat ladies and their struggles to communicate with anything in the world lacking whiskers and a tail.

And because the world's decided to be funny today, a tawny cat is curled up, asleep, in front of the studio.

_C'est la vie_, he thinks, and decides then and there that it's definitely a day for a picnic and some fresh air, because if the man now suddenly sleeping next to the cat is any indication, he's been spending far too much time breathing in the darkroom chemicals these past few days.

* * *

They have picnics, and then they have Picnics, and this afternoon it's a Picnic because Francis needs to clear his head of developer and crazy cat ladies and god-knows-what-else that's been messing with his brain all day, and the only cure is (not more cowbell, contrary to Gilbert's beliefs, but) good food and Arthur.

"And then there was this…man—a gorgeous man nonetheless—but one moment he's not there, and the next he's just sleeping in front of the studio like a cat, and _mon Dieu, _Arthur, cats are just following me everywhere today and I think I'm starting to go crazy and—" he sneezes once, twice, three times, and picks a cat hair off his shirt. "I think I'm allergic."

Arthur just stares as Francis rambles, his head in Arthur's lap and Arthur's hands playing absentmindedly with his hair. Francis is talking with his hands again, and Arthur tugs on his hair when one of Francis's flailing arms nearly hits him in the face.

"Of course you're bloody allergic, didn't you know that?"

The string of half-French, half-English, all stream-of-conscious ceases for a moment as blue eyes look up to meet green, and Arthur sighs. "Why do you think you always feel miserable when we go to Ludwig and Feli's apartment, but then magically feel better once we leave? It's because of the kittens Feli keeps everywhere, you wanker! How could you not know you're allergic?"

Francis considers this. He's always assumed that it's the smell of all Ludwig's cleaning supplies that makes his eyes water and his head pound. Or maybe that he's just allergic to Ludwig himself. This certainly puts a new perspective on things.

"Well…I suppose that means I won't be using crazy cat ladies for my next photoshoot after all."

Arthur snorts and helps himself to another macaroon.

* * *

They don't really know how they ended up together, officially, but at the same time, it was so inevitable and so, _so _obvious to everyone within a hundred-mile radius (and maybe, just maybe, to they themselves) that the impetus for their Relationship isn't all that important. What's important is this: despite their arguments over anything and everything and the little things in between, through all the sleepless nights (for better or worse) and all the empty threats (as well as those fulfilled), Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy are still Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy. Arthur still can't cook or tame his hair or be convinced that any band will ever surpass the Beatles. Francis still holds a monopoly on the world's love but doesn't own a single pair of blue jeans, still sings in the shower every morning and savors a glass of red wine every night. Neither has changed in the slightest, and this can only mean that they'd already built each other into their daily lives so intricately that there was nothing left _to_ change, nothing any different now than there was before.

(But if Francis now falls asleep to the steady rhythm of Arthur's breathing rather than to _Chanson Française_, and if Arthur develops a secret love for holding hands and eating croissants, well…a little change isn't always a bad thing).

* * *

He's putting on the kettle when there's a knock at the door. Arthur hastily drops the smoldering crumpets into the trashcan and opens the door to find Eduard, smiling shyly and fixing his glasses.

"Hello, Arthur," he says. "Can I come in?"

"Sure, sure, I just put the kettle on. Would you like some tea?" Arthur's always liked Eduard, finds him intelligent and gentlemanly and a great match for Matthew. However, Eduard is also every bit as quiet and introverted as Matthew, and this makes for the most infuriatingly passive-aggressive arguments between two people that he's ever witnessed.

"Tea would be wonderful." Eduard takes a seat at the breakfast bar and folds his hands on the counter. There's a bit of a silence, not quite uncomfortable, as the water boils, but Arthur can see the tension in Eduard's shoulders.

"What's happened this time?" he asks.

"I'm not entirely sure."

"Why don't you start from the beginning?" Arthur considers himself an excellent listener and privately sees himself as Eduard's mentor, in a way. Not that he of all people should be giving out relationship advice, but the point still stands. This has become routine by now: Eduard and Matthew somehow find themselves in a fight, (or whatever constitutes as a fight for two people who consider giving the other the cold-shoulder a viable way of arguing), and eventually Matthew goes to Kat while Eduard comes to Arthur for advice. Arthur makes tea, sometimes has leftover macaroons to offer, and Eduard talks until he works the problem out on his own.

"Someone came looking for Alfred last night," Eduard begins, and Arthur can already see where this is going. The second floor of the building is set up strangely; Matthew and Eduard live in 200A and Alfred and Toris live in 200B, rather than in rooms 200 and 250, respectively. Strangers to the building more often than not end up going to 200A and asking for Alfred, when in fact the louder of the twins lives on the other end of the hall.

(It was Toris who had tried to speak with Mathias about getting the room numbers changed, but Mathias had just laughed and found the entire situation too amusing to fix. Lukas had smacked him upside the head but had done nothing further to help).

"And Mattie got really upset, more upset than usual I mean," Eduard continues. "I thought he was actually going to yell at the man. So I told the man no, Alfred does not live here, and pointed him to the right room. Mattie had gone into the other room and I tried to make him feel better by suggesting we go to IHOP for late-night pancakes. And his face got really red—not embarrassed-red, but angry-red I think—and he hasn't spoken to me since."

Arthur hums in acknowledgement and slides a cup of Earl Grey across the counter to Eduard. "IHOP?" he prompts, taking a sip of his own tea.

Eduard nods. "We go there a lot for pancakes. He likes it…or at least, I'm assuming so. He always agrees to go with me."

Arthur takes another sip and waits for Eduard to figure it out.

"…Maybe he doesn't like IHOP and just doesn't want to tell me," Eduard tells the counter. He pushes his glasses up his nose and stares intently at his tea. "Why would that make him mad, though?"

Arthur can almost see the thoughts whizzing through Eduard's brain right now, numberless calculations and analyses, dates relived and conversations replayed, and—_there, he's got it_.

"IHOP doesn't have real syrup; Mattie prides himself on only using real syrup and associates fake syrup with Alfred; someone comes looking for Alfred and then I choose to bring up IHOP. Q.E.D. I'm an ass."

Arthur coughs to cover up his chuckle at Eduard's logic before recovering his own gentlemanly demeanor. "You're not an ass. But I'd say that the IHOP association sounds like a definite possibility. Why don't you try talking to him, now that you might know what's wrong?"

Eduard smiles and finishes his tea, then stands up. "I have an even better idea. I'm making him homemade pancakes tonight, with real maple syrup."

And really, how is Matthew ever able to stay mad at him?

* * *

Sadiq and his shuttershades are back again today. He's wandering through the aisles of books with his hood up and his hands stuffed in his pockets, with the air of someone determinedly not asking for help, so Arthur sits back and waits at the front register. (If Sadiq is as Gilbert-esque as he thinks, he'll get sick of looking self-sufficient and get bored and give up soon enough).

"Eyebrows."

Three minutes. That has to be some kind of record.

"Hello, Sadiq. What kind of animal are you after today?"

Sadiq flushes and laughs too loudly. "Funny, man, funny. You're a real comedian." His voice carries throughout the store, and a customer or two looks up from their perusing. At the prospect of asking for help, however, his voice quiets. "I need to find a building, actually. You see, I'm new in town. Do you live around here?"

Arthur crosses his arms and nods. "Fairly close by." There's not a whole lot in town to begin with, and he wonders what Sadiq could need _here _specifically rather than in the next town over, which is considerably bigger and more populated. Other than Borders, the grocery store (where Francis can spend hours just searching for that one particular sauce made by that one particular brand, otherwise the whole meal's ruined), the Laundromat (where Arthur dyes Francis's socks pink and Francis conveniently loses Arthur's underwear), the park (their park. Sadiq isn't getting directions from him), and the studio (again, Arthur isn't sending Sadiq to pose naked for Francis's latest photography project), he really can't think of anywhere in town that he visits on a regular basis.

"Good, because I don't know shit about this town and I'm gonna need a tour or something." Sadiq pulls a piece of paper from his back pocket and unfolds it on the counter. "But first, I need to know how to get to...," he glances at the paper, "LeMonde Avenue."

Arthur blinks. "_LeMonde_, did you say?"

"That's what it says on the paper."

"That's where I live." The words come out of his mouth before he can fully process what he's saying, and it's not until afterward that he realizes how stupid he is to give out such information to an (almost complete) stranger.

Sadiq freezes for a second but quickly regains his cool composure and laughs, too loudly again, like he wants the world to know something's funny and he's a part of it. But then, the punchline finally comes: "Well then, howdy neighbor! Tell me…is it true you all are throwing a party for me?"


	3. three

Arthur and Francis fight like rain falls in London: constantly, inevitably, and just enough to dampen the mood—pun definitely intended—without it turning into a full-fledged storm. But, also like the London rainfall, it all just becomes background noise after a little while, becomes predictable, becomes such a constant in their lives (the sun will rise, the water will boil, Lovino will call someone a bastard, Arthur and Francis will fight about bread) that if there's no argument breaking out within 24 hours, even they start to worry. It's rapidly approaching 36 hours, and Arthur has an itch he can't quite scratch, maybe from all the congeniality, (probably from last week's sunburn), and when he can't stand the peace and quiet and _civility_ anymore he decides to throw a fit over the shower, of all things.

"All—your damn—_shampoos_—!" he's yelling for some reason, in between throwing the offending hair products at a very confused (but privately very relieved) Francis and generally making a mess of the entire bathroom. "Don't know—why—you can't just _wash _your hair like everyone else—and not bloody _pamper it_—" and now Francis knows he's just shouting for the sake of shouting, and when he tackles Arthur and proceeds to knock over all the conditioners on the shelves as well, the entire building sighs in relief.

"You dropped the soap," he murmurs when they're done fighting, and Arthur headbutts his chest. "Rule number one, _mon cher_: you cannot drop the soap; didn't you ever learn?" He chuckles and Arthur headbutts him again, harder this time, before slumping into his shoulder, exhausted.

The peace will be restored for a couple hours, give or take. But at least for now, Francis thinks as he tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, there's nothing forced about it whatsoever.

* * *

(Later that night, he gets the feeling there's something he's supposed to tell Francis, something important, but he can't for the life of him remember what could be more important than his current cocoon of warmth and blankets and Parisian idiot. The arms around him tighten and he gives Francis a half-hearted elbow to the ribs, only to be met with a swift knee to the back of his thigh and an even tighter embrace (just because he can)).

* * *

"You smell like frog."

"You smell like _mine_."

* * *

Saturday mornings in their apartment always start the same: Francis wakes up at the crack of dawn like the crazy fuck he is and does the weekend crossword, while Arthur sleeps for another several hours and wakes up at a perfectly reasonable time, thank you very much. He gets up and makes breakfast and pretends not to notice Francis rescuing the eggs (and toast and bacon and tomatoes) from the fiery depths of Burnt Breakfast-dom. Francis calls him a cabbage, for reasons he will never understand, Arthur calls him a frog, Francis retorts with _rosbif_, and they sit down to eat. It's all very domestic and he should _hate _that, resent it at the very least, because Arthur Bloody Kirkland—born with pirate blood in his veins and _God Save The Queen _in his heart—should not in any way be associated with domesticity, but it's become a routine now, and, well. That's that.

This Saturday breaks the routine, just a little, and it's all the moving truck's fault. And _oh, _that's what he was supposed to tell Francis. Because Sadiq's outside, and the mover's unloading boxes from the back of the truck, and somewhere close by a cat is meowing.

"He was at the store this week," Arthur says. "I had to help him find a book about cats so he'd get laid. His words, not mine," he adds hastily as Francis raises an eyebrow, an amused smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Well, well," is all Francis says in response, watching out the kitchen window as Sadiq stacks three boxes and lifts them easily. Arthur grumbles as Francis continues to regard Sadiq, now striding toward the front door of the building, and pours himself some more tea. The cat meows again.

"Which means there'll probably be more bloody cat hair nearby."

"_Oui, peut-être_."

"You're allergic to cats. I'm not having sex with you if you're covered in hives."

"Hmm."

"Are you even listening to me, you wanker?"

"I would very much like to cook with this man."

When Francis isn't looking, Arthur pours salt in his coffee.

* * *

There are things Francis loves, and then there are things Francis is _passionate_ about. He loves wine and Monet and French history and Johnny Depp. He's passionate about Arthur and love and food. Of these three passions, food is the easiest to share with people who aren't Arthur, so he connects with people through gourmet cuisine and dog-eared cookbooks.

(This isn't the reason why Arthur watches Gordon Ramsay religiously).

Their new neighbor—Sadiq, was it?—has the air of an accomplished chef about him, in Francis's professional opinion. Because while some people claim to have gay-dar, Francis has chef-dar and he's never been wrong, ever—not about Yao or Feli or, on the other hand, Arthur. And he isn't wrong about Sadiq.

"_Bonjour_, I am Francis Bonnefoy," he says when he runs into Sadiq in the hallway. "And you must be our new neighbor. I believe you've already met Arthur, _non_?" He flashes his second most charming smile (the first is reserved for someone significantly more British) and extends a hand.

Sadiq grins back and shifts the blender he's carrying to shake Francis's hand. "What's up, Frenchy," he says, not unfriendly, and then, as something finally clicks, "How's ol' Eyebrows then?"

Arthur conveniently chooses to walk into the hallway at this moment (he hasn't been spying; he's not really SIS, not yet anyway) and answers for Francis, "How's Catwoman?"

Sadiq looks over Francis's shoulder and smirks. "Catwoman? Couldn't tell ya…but I could tell you all about Adonis if you wanted me to." He winks and raps on the window to get someone's attention outside.

"…Adonis?" Arthur is remembering his Greek mythology. Francis is elated.

The cat that seems to be everywhere this morning meows again, now somewhere very close by, and the front door opens to reveal a quiet, sleepy-eyed, and jaw-droppingly gorgeous man (not to mention a small army of cats following in his wake). "Oh," he says, his tone matching his demeanor, "hello there."

Sadiq's smirk only widens. "Like I said."

They all stand in silence for a moment (Arthur actually starts to wonder if the newest man has fallen asleep standing up), and then, because the world wants to prove a point, Francis begins to sneeze.

* * *

**A/N: Apologies for the short chapter! This was originally going to be longer but I feel like I haven't posted anything in so long so here's a filler. Next chapter will be much longer (I'm on spring break right now so expect it within the week, hopefully!) Get ready for the party~**


End file.
